


Heather (Double Spaced Ver.)

by leofics (arcadevia)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coming Out, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Minor Allura/Lance (Voltron), Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Pakistani Krolia (Voltron), Singer Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn, Trans Romelle (Voltron), Unrequited Love, bollywood references lol, but not really, keith has brown eyes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26172685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadevia/pseuds/leofics
Summary: “What  about  Heather?”“Heather?”“Yeah,  that  one.”Keith  tries  his  best  to  let  his  eyes  glaze  over  to  a  point  across  his  bedroom  and  away  from  the  object  of  a  song  so  painfully  personal  to  him.  Someone  who  sits  at  his  side,  clad  in  faded  jeans  with  threadbare  cuffs  that  Keith’s  grown  all  too  familiar  with,  all  too  fond  of,  to  the  point  of  making  such  an  inapparent  performance  feel  more  nerve  wracking  than  a  crowd  of  hundreds—  thousands.  Because  cell  phone  flashes  twinkling  like  the  city  lights  below  the  flights  he’s  boarded  for  booked  concerts  aren’t  nearly  as  intimate  as  his  lone  audience  of  one  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  He’d  rather  a  million  pairs  of  ears  listen  to  Heather  before  the  song  strikes  that  one  in  particular;  secrets  shouldn’t  be  shared  with  who  they’re  about.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Heather (Double Spaced Ver.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the double spaced version of my fic for readers who are dyslexic, or just prefer this format :)  
>    
> The extra spacing in summary & notes doesn't work, so I made the text bigger.
> 
> Here is the [original version](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26157232/chapters/63642973) with regular formatting :)
> 
> ALSO, THE [PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5FRQWP37Cmr1YvYT58DnhX?si=DET5_T1rQaipNvcwBqLwtQ) FOR THIS FIC!

“What about Heather?”

“Heather?”

“Yeah, that one.”

Keith inhales, hoping the stutter in his breath isn’t too noticeable. Suddenly, his throat feels as narrow as a straw, but he slides the guitar in his lap from where he sits against the pillows on his bed, then strums away at the unmistakable tune of a song he’d written himself. And even though each note plucked brings back the memory of another tear leaving the salty taste of heartbreak in his mouth, he tries his best to let his eyes glaze over to a point across his bedroom and away from the object of a song so painfully personal to him. Someone who sits at his side, clad in faded jeans with threadbare cuffs that Keith’s grown all too familiar with, all too fond of, to the point of making such an inapparent performance feel more nerve wracking than a crowd of hundreds— _thousands_. Because cell phone flashes twinkling like the city lights below the flights he’s boarded for booked concerts aren’t nearly as intimate as his lone audience of one on a Sunday afternoon. He’d rather a million pairs of ears listen to Heather before the song strikes that _one_ in particular; secrets shouldn’t be shared with who they’re about.

But unfortunately (in this context), the released track has already surpassed a whopping milestone of 9 million views. So it seems fate could only toss him a bone before the inevitable came about.

_“I still remember_

_Third of December_

_Me in your sweater”_

...

**October, 2019**

Lance has come to an unsurprising conclusion when he sits beside Allura on their seat-jostling hayride across the pumpkin patch. While the autumn breeze fans across every exposed crevice, from in between the tears in his jeans to his bare neck above the low collar of his t-shirt, he finds it more thrilling to feel when his sweater makes for such a lovely sight on someone else.

He spends the hayride, and arguably all other parts of this night out, chirping along with his fluttery heart and teasing the boundaries with Allura, a crush so sweet that’s lingered with him for so long that he may as well have a cavity or two. He swears his past self would burst into the crackling bits of a firework if he’d ever known that the girl he met freshman year of college, mesmerizing in all sorts of ways, would eventually begin to spare him more than a polite giggle or two at his goofy antics. He’d like to say tonight’s gotta be a complete _win_ when it comes to Allura’s timid _“Oh… This smells fairly nice”_ after throwing on his sweater, as well as her fond smile when Lance proposes: _“We should carve this one together”_ after finding the perfect pumpkin while the rest of the crew continued scouring for their own.

He still feels bashful and soft even in the hour following her departure later on. The shape was carved, jagged, but nonetheless a _heart_ , and he can’t stamp away the easy smile on his face when he picks up chunks of seeds and mush across the patio for Shiro’s compost. Right, not to mention he totally got some cute touchiness when plucking the bits from Allura’s hair after their sudden pumpkin-guts battle, then having the favor returned.

 _“You’re such a jerk!”_ Allura had shrieked through a bubble of laughter as Lance chucked his first couple handfuls her way.

He liked her smile, he kept at it. _“Aww, don’t tell me you can’t handle some teasing, princess!”_

 _Yeah…_ It was nice.

But in the last moments before he himself would leave, there was a sudden doubt that plucked at a heartstring, too late to make up for when the height of the group’s hangout had long since passed, and now he’s left standing with Keith on the front porch.

“You had some fun tonight, man?” Lance asks as he heartily clasps Keith’s shoulder. The impact makes the other wobble from momentum, far less stiff and stoic than the demeanor Lance is used to seeing. He thinks for a moment.

It’s a bit of a shame he can’t quite recall Keith’s excitement, or possible lack of it, since any memories he can conjure are diluted and quiet. He doesn’t remember hearing that deep chuckle on the hayride, or what kind of pumpkin Keith chose, or if he joined the rest of them in the messy seed fight.

Yet Keith recovers his footing with a tight smile, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans and bare arms visibly sporting a layer of goosebumps. His bangs flutter in the wind, a reluctantly endearing sight, but the eyes underneath are tense in a way Lance can’t decipher. “Yeah,” he says in a clipped tone. “Thanks for coming.”

“‘Course, thanks for having me,” Lance replies before awkwardly lowering his hand back to his side. He clears his throat, feeling that telltale doubt twang uncomfortably in his mind, and then what he detects to be _guilt_ building in his chest, thick and mucky. “Happy birthday, superstar” he murmurs, knowing he was too late to realize— to remember the _whole point_ of tonight. And although they’ve both had sticks up their asses lately he could’ve at least afforded to behave decently. 

Keith’s stare remains blank even when his smile may try to fool it into something else. “Thanks. I’ll see you.”

Lance nods, “You too.” Then he makes his way to his car parked along the curb.

He feels sick.

...

_“Only if you knew_

_How much I liked you”_

**November, 2019**

The way Keith recalls his old habit of retaliating against Lance’s brashness is similar to the way he reminisces over juvenile memories. Lashing out feels childish now, or at least like an impulse that’s been used so relentlessly and repetitively that the temptation has become simple and fleeting. It doesn’t feel necessary, he doesn’t find the desire to fend for himself to be as teeth-gnashing as it used to, and his little short tempered monster has worn itself down far past the point of heated rage or envy.

His blistering instinct has grown into something heavier, and with each passing moment where Lance does something that would’ve struck a chord, Keith’s reaction is mellow and unenthusiastic. It’s like trying to play a guitar with clumps of mud clinging to the strings that turn each note dull and off tune. Not to mention _ugly_. Because at least before when Keith had the energy, he could let his outbursts settle back into a hidden hope for something else, something he wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on until nothing besides his pillow could come close to the idea that he wants Lance to _like_ him.

Like him _back_ , that is.

And it’s not in the way he’d seek acceptance, because in that context he _earns_ it, just like he earned that support from Shiro, and eventually his first taste of professionalism from Adam’s studio. He seeks acceptance with far more ease and coordination than any of his _emotional_ endeavors, and he could only wish that what he has with Lance could be handled as easily as just another song his fans immediately fall in love with down to the soul.

So he makes it a reality, turns those pillow thoughts into pillow talk that take the form of a song explaining his struggle far simpler than he could ever imagine it to be. Because Allura wearing Lance’s sweater is a moment that just _barely_ covers the brunt of all those other affairs Keith had been subjected to seeing. It was his _birthday_ for fuck sake, he can still feel the smile being dragged off his face like a shitty paper airplane taking a nosedive to the ground. Keith felt humiliated to see Lance didn’t even spare a look his way while getting his present opened, and that genuine _“Thank you so much”_ on the tip of Keith’s tongue had died away when he realized there was no one ready to hear it, at least not the person he was hoping for.

So he had sheepishly set the gift bag back aside and pretended not to catch the small apology in everyone else’s eyes because it wasn’t meant to come from them anyway. It’s still honestly ridiculous to just _feel_ third wheeled while opening your own damn gifts. 

The hurt turned more self-deprecating, because although in the gift bag was one of Lance’s sweaters that was borrowed during Keith’s first tour, he couldn’t help but see Allura clad in another from that night and feel plain out awful.

He wished he was her.

_“She’s got you_

_Mesmerized_

_While I die”_

...

**December, 2019**

Shiro is the kind of person who pushes boundaries with good intentions. Keith can admit, he needs a bit of a shove every now and then as he’s still stuck in a place of uncertainty when it comes to his rising fame.

“I’m not saying you need to use this for fame or anything,” Shiro had told him. “But I think your work should be put out there. You’re not alone in what you sing about and neither are your listeners.”

And he was well aware that what his mentor said was referring to a more _healthy_ extent of an outlet, but Keith’s brain had beaten the railroad for his train of thought until it tore apart and any happy, let alone _plausible_ end in sight was lost on him. There seemed like no chance to reclaim the steady back and forth that his banter with Lance had been all that time ago. It felt like all that effort and nights spent believing in a stupid fantasy were tossed in the garbage while Lance is in the thick of his relationship with Allura. The least Keith could do is have his song produced for all those other suckers like him out there.

So he took his flimsy notebook and guitar back to the studio, watched Shiro give him the go ahead from outside the booth, and got comfortable in his misery as he strummed his guitar and determinedly kept his focus on every lilt in his own voice over the ongoing rhythm.

But it fell to shambles. The pads of his fingers turned sweaty and slid too late to the next chord. He sensed that telltale, _annoying_ waver while he sang, and with the first crack in his voice, it was like the ground gave in and he was floundering back into the hole he’d spent so much time climbing out of.

“Why would you ever kiss me?

I’m not even h-half as, pretty” 

He tried through the tears, figured he could at least save his dignity if he could get through the song in one go, whether this recording would be scrapped or not. But then he lifted his head back up and peered past the watery veil to where Shiro’s figure turned wobbly. He couldn’t make out the man’s exact expression, only faint nodding along, and it still felt like his own deprecation was being reflected right back to him.

He couldn’t even record a _song_. Sure, the difficulty that comes with friendship and just people in general is excusable enough, but what was supposed to be an outlet had just turned into another problem— another _letdown._

The realities of Lance not reciprocating and Lance actively pursuing someone else should’ve gone hand in hand, like two sides of the same coin, but Keith had selfishly clung to the idea of admiring the boy from afar without the latter situation. It feels like it’s his own fault— it _is_ his own fault, and he let it happen. He let it dwindle and dwell so much that the word _dead_ made it onto the same first draft page as Allura’s replacement name, and even the ones after that.

“I-I’m sorry,” Keith chokes out over the last strum he could bear, cut off by his arm turning lax in defeat.

His small hiccups make way for long overdue sobs when Shiro wordlessly makes his way inside the booth, letting Keith cling to his torso and cry a pathetic patch of wetness into his shirt.

It’s not _fair_ , he just can’t have one thing for himself, huh? Lance stopped giving half the fucks he used to about Keith ever since he’d returned from tour, and even less so on his own birthday. _“I figured it looked better on you, superstar”_. Yeah, and Keith could name someone who apparently looked even _better_ than he did.

He’d like to say there’s some sort of poetry behind the following nights he spent wearing it to bed, crying out the last of his tears that he hadn’t already unloaded in the studio that one day. He wanted to say Lance might at least feel bad if he saw him like this, maybe wrap himself around Keith and hold him in a way a heap of fabric couldn’t ever come close to. He pretended the reason he kept wearing it even past Lance’s scent of just _home_ was because he was a good friend appreciating a gift. But there’s no poetry, and honestly, he was always just a goner.

At least the song was finally produced.

  
  


_“Put your arm 'round her shoulder_

_Now I'm getting colder”_

**I can’t imagine how heartbroken he must’ve been to write such a song -**

_104 likes_

**This hurts when you think one of your best friends and your crush like each other.**

_58 likes_

**Isn’t it weird how we all think of different people yet we feel the same way-...**

_97 likes_

**time to cry**

_3.4k likes_

...

**February 16th, 2020**

“You listen to his songs a lot,” Allura says to Lance, empty of anything accusatory as she scrolls through his phone from where she sits in the passenger seat. Her other hand is slung over the armrest to hold Lance’s on the center console, a plain connection the latter absentmindedly dwells on as he roves his thumb across the same smooth patch of skin. It’s like wiping windows but never quite seeing through them— no enticing view ahead. It’s just the road, and he navigates through memorized turns with an empty head for what lies beyond. Just going through the motions, headed to Allura’s house, it’s no biggie.

But it’s also not home.

And truth be told, he misses it. He misses that warm welcome of a family so familiar that it’s not a breath of fresh air, it’s actually somewhere he’s always felt he belonged, and a step through the door isn’t as exhilarating as it is a gentle breeze during springtime.

The Kogane household upholds the safeness of tradition in a striking contrast to Lance’s family that’s always splotchy with new beginnings and drama. He can show up on the doorstep and expect Krolia’s generally inviting wave inside while preoccupied on the phone. And the routine of eating whatever leftovers while Keith translates parts of the phone call —typically their own family happenings— from a distant mother tongue had become their own form of a tradition.

He misses their hangouts, the twangs in Keith’s guitar sliding into lulling melodies, or getting ridiculously more invested in dramatic Bollywood movies as well as a culture Keith had apparently become more timid of sharing overtime. But another piece of the boy’s history is something Lance found himself increasingly more hooked on, from old wedding photos showcasing Krolia’s elaborate red sari and elegant jewelry that enhanced the richness of her brown eyes, to easy nudges as Keith guides him through writing the Urdu alphabet. It had him burning at the neck, maybe even Keith too, but that’s something he doesn’t think about anymore.

Keith was a spout in Lance’s life that ended up gushing out a whole river. But right when Lance felt that water spilling through the crevices between his fingers clutched over a spasming and terrifyingly _confused_ heart, they fell away. Time spent apart from that months-long, country-wide tour last year meant time spent relearning the definition of home without someone he’d become so close to (albeit reluctantly at first).

He doesn’t wanna think about it. His thumb continues roving over Allura’s soft skin and tracing it into a memory less timid and calloused because he’s _allowed_ to feel this time.

“He’s got a good voice,” Lance chirps, because that much is true and it’s at least an opinion worth indulging in.

Out of the corner of his eye, Allura continues scrolling. It’s almost too distant and formal for him to bear, so weirdly different to that thrill of a grey area in flirting, but the kissing is sweet and she’s at least someone he’s been willing to take a dive at. At least ever since—

He doesn’t wanna think about it.

“Have you listened to his recent album yet?” Allura asks with a voice as fresh as flowing water. She seems hesitant though, her hand is tense and Lance worries. “It’s um, it’s been a while—“ _a couple months_ “—I don’t see it on here though?”

“Nah not yet,” Lance shrugs with a considering frown. “Is it good?” Good, _pssh_ , he bets it's amazing.

“Yes, he’s quite the singer,” Allura answers with a smile as Lance takes the last turn and pulls up to her intimidating, freaking _gigantic_ house.

Lance lets out a steady breath and returns her smile. “Do I got competition now?” he says and brings her hand up to his lips to press a small smooch there. Allura rolls her eyes but he catches that gleam of teeth peeking through.

“Oh hush you baby.” She knocks her knuckles against Lance’s chin.

Lance hums smugly and leans forward over the console to rest his forehead against hers. Her smell is light and alluring— _a breath of fresh air_. “I’m _your_ baby though,” he murmurs before placing another kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Keith better watch out,” he finishes lightheartedly but the pinch in his mind still stings.

Allura takes a little too long to return a small giggle, but she still kisses him and says in a tone toeing the edge of some kind of mystery “There’s no need for that.”

And while they bid their little puppy-love goodbyes, Lance actually wonders how Keith sees Allura.

Well anyway, he should probably get to that album, even if it means delving into a dreadful hit home, his uptake on being a decent person has been lacking anyway.

_“But how could I hate her?_

_She's such an angel_

_But then again, kinda_

_Wish she were_ **_dead_** _”_

...

**April 19th, 2020**

Look, Lance told himself he’d get around to it _eventually_. And with that, his mind dove right into the loophole of an undecided period of time spent resisting obligation. Now he’s swimming in circles of _“I’ll get around to it”_ without actually climbing out of this pity pool and into whatever unknown lies ahead.

Keith has noticeably caught on too, it’s in the way he tenses up when the topic of music rolls around. He tends to awkwardly shift when he’s uncomfortable, as if wearing clothes twice as small with the seams digging in at his knees and up his throat, where he takes to subtly tugging his collar every now and then.

Lance can’t help the urge to just fuck all and blame their distance on something as insignificant as the wind despite being well aware this was his own doing. It’s just… it’s _hard_ , the Keith he’d first met was a cranky dorm-mate during freshman year of college, and now nearly three years later, his friend roams free from the torturing grip of college in favor of pursuing this _rising star_ reputation.

Their friendship (more like acquaintanceship) was jagged around the edges, and even when Lance threw aside his snark, it still felt like their interactions fed a constant friction, and at any sudden moment they’d crackle apart and start back from square one. Shouting matches turned to petty pranks and then snappy remarks, until Lance found that the mister holier-than-thou he’d cut Keith out to be was actually someone who missed home as much as he had. That 3am deep talk sometime near the end of the school year made Lance realize the fortune of moving states for a scholarship never made up for what Keith had left behind, and apparently even a future built upon a freakin’ platinum academic streak _still_ didn’t compare to the busted up guitar case at the end of Keith’s bed, along with the treasured instrument lying inside.

 _“My mom supported my music, sure,”_ Keith had shrugged while flipping a guitar pick between his fingers. _“But it wasn’t real enough, just, uh, more of a hobby than a career path I guess.”_

But it feels like a full circle now. From their crackled connection to a scrap of insulation at the end of the school year, where they just barely grazed the usual banter. Lance spent the summer visiting the Kogane household more and more until that faint spring breeze sensation made its way into his heart during the first half of sophomore year—

at the most inconvenient time.

One of Keith’s videos had gone viral overnight, and while one second he was just a student with a side passion, the next he was exploring record deals and eventually giving up his second semester for his first tour starting December.

December 3rd, when Lance didn’t wanna pull some Troy and Gabriella crap on a friendship that’s barely gotten personal, so his version of _“Don’t forget about me”_ was lending a sweater Keith once borrowed after getting masala sauce on his only clean shirt. It looked good on him, like, _really_ good, the dark red enhancing Keith’s brown eyes the way Krolia’s wedding colors had. Lance swore he saw significance in that, whatever _that_ may be but the least he knew was that it looked right. So when they reached the airport and Keith hesitantly looked down from the borrowed sweater and then up to Lance, his fingers readily curling at the hem to give it back, Lance hurriedly blurted out _“Just take it with you.”_

And along with that sweater, it felt like the boy was taking something else too, something they had.

It didn’t hurt that much in the first couple months, but soon enough he was seeing more of Keith on YouTube and Instagram than he was regarding personal notifications. Any Q&A’s seemed empty of the Keith he knew, but perhaps that was just Lance’s disappointment for not hearing his name mentioned, let alone any of the group’s names. Instead, Keith moved forward as if his life had begun at Shirogane Studios and not Altea University, or even his home in Arizona before moving here to California.

So the full circle came about when Keith returned in May after weeks on end of spotty, blunt check in’s, and Lance had moved on to a newer thrill in life that took the form of a gorgeous student he still couldn’t believe he managed to get as a tutor, and then a _friend_.

Keith didn’t seem the same, and despite Lance’s jealous suspicions, it wasn’t the kind of superstar change that had his wardrobe flipped inside out and his walk in a constant swagger. He’d humbly returned the sweater, took to catching up with the group, and barely mentioned the tour unless someone else brought it about.

Maybe Lance shouldn’t be bitter over Keith’s conversation being void of any reminiscing. After all, he was the one searching the boy’s name on nearly every platform just to get a scrap of that feeling they used to share— did they even share it? See that’s why it’s so aggravating to observe from afar; not only was Lance left behind like some friend-of-a-friend rather than whatever strange, platonic _fling_ they had, but Keith apparently didn’t have anything to show for it. No thrilling concert recollections or wild meet and greet stories. It was like Keith would’ve packed up if just the dusty dirt on the ground could somehow tell him to, an invitation for throwing what was surely thought to be valuable to the wind. Perhaps Lance was just fools' gold to Keith. 

So he figured making the same mistake again was unnecessary. By now he’s learned that the kind of life this boy is living doesn’t have much room for him now, despite every achingly confused bone in him fighting to try and prove that otherwise. Keith was— _is_ on the back burner. And with Allura at Lance’s side, he’s not sure if Keith is even on the stove anymore.

Keith still tags along to group hangouts though, along with his new friend _Romelle_ who apparently worked makeup for him and somehow broke past the stoic barrier with her wild personality. _Pssh_ , yeah she can get in line with that kind of backstory, Lance would like to say he’s the blueprint but at least this girl can hang on for the long run. Sure, Keith’s gay, doesn’t make the sight of Romelle braiding the boy’s hair in the cabin they’re staying at any less _stupid_.

It’s late April and they’re fast approaching the hell week before actual hell week, where Lance will readily cram as much studying in his schedule while breaking a record of how fast he can be flung into a breakdown. (1 minute and 13 seconds so far. He knows because he zoned out on the scrubber during a Katy Perry song.) So the group decided the best way to spend time before entering that freakin’ _purgatory_ is to take a little trip to the snazzy cabin Allura owns at the lake across town. Because, ya know, his girlfriend is wealthy like that and Lance couldn’t feel any more insecure about it at this point. He can’t mind it too much though.

What he _can_ mind is the scheduling. This trip would’ve been far more easy-peasy and less high strung if it were _after_ exams, when Lance wouldn’t constantly feel pulled taut like a bow ready to blast an arrow straight into Keith’s stupid, pr— _stupid_ face. He won’t blame it on the wind, but this time, he’s not blaming it on himself either. Apparently Keith’s busy all of May in preparation for another concert in June, so naturally everyone is like _“All hail Keith”_ or whatever.

He takes a breather at dawn. After hastily settling in last night and getting a crappy night’s rest, even with Allura’s arms around him, he figures the only bone he can throw himself right now is going outside.

The sensation is subtle as he adjusts to cooler air, somehow more crisp when there’s not clusters of people taking such for granted. He soaks in his view of the vast rippling slate of water and the line of trees zippering between the sky and it’s reflection, much less boring than staring at the same fruit bowl painting for fifteen minutes straight before he’d awkwardly shimmied his way out of bed.

Sometimes when he lives in moments like this, he can’t help but feel disappointment crawling amongst the peace, like fog wafting through the forest and dotting thickets of leaves with tiny tears of doubt that he just can’t seem to let go of. This was supposed to be a last chance for a kickback before his brain is overworked into mush soon, but even without the thought of school, without the enigma of an undecided future, it doesn’t feel like a vacation no matter how glossy the cabin is or the stretch of water between himself and the rest of the town. He feels alone.

“You’re up early.”

Lance feels his nerves slam together and nearly jolts out of his skin, floundering for balance as he frantically whips around and is met with none other than Keith wearing the barest curve of an amused smile, along with… the red sweater.

He sits a cushioned chair placed around the corner, where the stairs railing opens up to accommodate for the wideness of the deck. It’s no surprise Lance hadn’t seen him when his eyes had been trained ahead since he’d stepped out here just a few minutes ago. Still, mister creepy over here apparently can’t make normal sounds like, ya know, _normal_ human beings. Even the way he sits is weirdly similar to the way the stiff joints of a Barbie doll make any surface look uncomfortable to sit on.

 _“Geez,”_ Lance breathes out with one hand gripping the railing and the other clutching his shirt’s thin material over his chest; undoubtedly the skin underneath is sporting a layer of goosebumps. “Mind lending me a little warning before you jump me, _Edward Cullen?_ ” he says with some incredulity.

And despite the delivery, Keith chuckles anyway. His head bows and the bangs that slip from his tied back hair fall limp around the frame of his soft face, obscuring the sight of an easy smile that he can’t seem to help. Lance doesn’t know how to feel but the nostalgia is already beginning to rise toward his vulnerable heart, in the nook that carries memories of similar sights where Keith is Keith and nothing more.

“Out of all the references you can make, you chose that one?” Keith replies as he crosses his arms.

Lance huffs, mimics Keith but it feels more like a defensive, self-hug than anything. “Well I’m not gonna compare you to Rancho,” he says, and sees the way Keith’s eyes light up a tinge even though the sun’s glare hasn’t made it over the mountains quite yet. He doesn’t know why he’s entertaining it, sleep deprivation is an easy excuse.

“Which one?” Keith asks. He lifts himself from the chair with grace and treads on over to where Lance keeps himself glued to the railing.

Keith is charming in the kind of way Lance has spent too long holding envy over, and even longer figuring out why it still affected him despite that weight being eventually tossed aside. For someone who turns out to be sweet and smooth past the recklessness, like a string of caramel between layers of bitter chocolate, he still braves a line of risk when it comes to Lance’s feelings. One second he’s a haughty superstar and the next he’s— he’s _this_.

“You know which one,” Lance says, because although Keith would doze off during nearly every Bollywood romance, he stayed awake for the whole 3 hour comedy.

Rancho has a reputation for tactfully sneaking into places and causing trouble. Lance remembers daydreaming of having a love story similar to Rancho and Pia, in which Allura would eventually fall for his mischief and make googly eyes at the thought of Lance serenading her, he’s not sure his girlfriend would even do that now though.

Keith huffs a faint laugh and stares ahead with his arms propped up on the railing, just the way Lance had been before his peace was rudely _interrupted_. “I’m sure we’ve got plenty in common,” he says.

And Lance doesn’t know why it suddenly takes over him now, why being spoken to like a _friend_ feels so bitter past their blatant distance when it didn’t seem like much of a problem before. He feels sick at the memory of mistreating Keith all those months ago, but it’s still been a year since his return and there’s no denying their lost connection when they interact like two magnets repelling one another, gliding away when they’ve come too close. He feels his magnet slipping.

“Mm,” Lance hums blandly as he stares into the water, his eyes heavy from his heart’s grudge. “Like leaving your friends for a career they helped support.” It comes out like a statement; he doesn’t have the energy for last minute theatrics.

Rancho was also a genius innovator who attended engineering college with two friends he’d met along the way, and yet after all that time spent on their friendship, he disappears for the sake of running his own school and leaves it up to the two others to come find him.

Though Keith’s story seems far less dramatic and he returned by his own accord, he still left, and he still fell out of touch with Lance— with _everyone_. All those moments curled up with Keith’s cat, Mia, on the bed while Keith sits nearby writing a melody in the making… They were all fools’ gold. And the times he’d pretend to fall asleep just to hear Keith’s singing brave a clearer volume were even more so. And yet it felt so _real_ , like each note rumbled over his skin with grace just like Mia’s purrs had.

Keith’s head whips in his direction, his face the picture of bewilderment with those wide dark eyes sunk under the pinch of his brows, mouth agape and tugged low in matching dismay. His hair billows from the gust of a renewed breeze, so laughably similar to those Bollywood romances that it’s _stupid_. So stupid Lance could combust from seeing something so unintentionally cliche with the most unexpected person accompanying him.

“Is— Is that really how you feel, Lance?” Keith asks in a tone that radiates innocence. It pisses him off because by now maybe Keith _should_ know the answer to that.

Lance huffs and grips either arm even tighter when the wind picks up. “You left us—“

“That was a year ago.”

“A year since you _came back!_ ” Lance snaps. “I barely heard from you for five months! And— And while you were doing your little concerts and interviews and being prince charming with all the fangirls I still kept up with what I could.” He can recall all the cutesy interviews with the puppies, online articles showing up in magazines at the corner store, another celebrity saying what an _honor_ it is to meet some young prodigy or whatever like Keith.

“But you didn’t do the same,” he says with finality while Keith stares on with a conflicted expression. “Looks like you could’ve lived without m— without _us_.” He nods toward the cabin, full of everyone who’s been subjected to his endless fretting over _Keith Keith Keith_ until he finally flipped his attention to a tutor that seemed far more worthy of his time. Both academically and romantically, in the inevitable sense that _Loverboy Lance_ should just get a move on since the wound’s closing up. And yet here he is, ripping the stitches out and laying it all raw and bare for someone who’s got the audacity to be _surprised_.

Keith purses his lips as his dark eyes flit between Lance’s own. His nostrils flare, jaw tenses, throat bobs under a swallow and Lance can practically _see_ a bundle of words rising from the puffed chest beneath that red sweater.

“This is _my_ career,” he growls, like the lake water is rippling from a beast Lance has nudged too far (more like shoved). “And it’s a new part of my life. I can’t always make time for things in the past—“

“So I’m just the past to you,” Lance interrupts because yeah, fuck it, he’s hurt and maybe he can afford Keith knowing that by now.

Keith’s breath catches and he glances toward the water with a frown, like there’s a response worth debating in his mind before he spews it outright the way Lance has been doing.

He hears the sliding door open from the porch, which is a good distance away with how far the set of steps go until reaching the deck. There’s a bundle of white curls peeking through, turning a calm silver in the dawn’s resting light as Allura steps outside looking admittedly adorable in a pair of borrowed pajama pants from Lance. The waistband is rolled up a ridiculous amount of times and yet the hem _still_ reaches past her ankles. She looks so _safe_ to him as her tired gaze squints out to where he and Keith are situated on the deck; she probably doesn’t have her glasses on.

But as safe as Allura seems, Lance feels like his affair with her is just as unresolved as the one standing right in front of him. Nothing feels right; nothing even feels _okay_.

Keith turns to the sound of the door just as Lance had, recognition catching in his face before he stiffly looks back. _Bullshit_ , Lance thinks, _he’s probably just trying to act civil now_.

“It wasn’t my intention—“

“Yeah well you know what, Keith? You ran away,” he says, then takes a breath as he chances a glance at Allura, who makes her way toward the steps with careful shuffles in those baggy pajamas. The softness from his longing hardens when he meets Keith’s eyes again in a downright glower. “Maybe you should’ve just stayed away.”

He only has a couple seconds to spare taking in the sight of Keith’s reaction before making his way to the steps. And he’s glad he didn’t take any longer, because the way Keith’s face falls is like a glass bottle plummeting to the ground toward an awaited, shattering fate. It very well may be beyond repair when it crashes into a vast disc of jagged pieces that’ll splinter his hands and feet if he dares to return.

But he doesn’t look back, not when he reaches Allura and wraps an arm around her waist before reeling her into a sweet morning kiss.

And he pretends not to hear the impact after practically drop-kicking their glass bottle of a friendship off the roof of a ten story building.

It happened though, not in the form of a fracture that breaks one piece into a million, but it’d been the quiet kind. Stifled, alone, muffled underneath layers of immediate guilt and later behind the door to Keith and Romelle’s shared room, where Lance hears something dangerously close to a sniffle followed by _“—feel sick, can you uhm- pick me up..?”_

And when he gets the chance to peer over the imaginary ten story building and look at the fucking _mess_ he’s made when Keith wordlessly walks out the door with a zipped up duffel bag, he pretends not to notice the lack of a red sweater, and the twisted fury on Allura’s face where she holds it in a bundle at the end of the hallway.

_“You gave her your sweater_

_It’s just polyester_

_But you like her better”_

…

**Author's Note:**

> More of Keith’s POV will be in the next chapter. If it wasn’t made clear enough, his tour was from Dec 2018 — April 2019
> 
> Also, Romelle will not be villainized in this, Lance is just bitter lol. Her character will also be expanded upon.
> 
> [socials](https://linktr.ee/arcadevia)  
> 


End file.
